The Sleeping Sun
by Q.E.D. 221B
Summary: Sherlock is given custody of a baby girl he fathered whilst abroad during the great hiatus. Realizing he is not proper father material - he takes her to Mycroft.


**THE SLEEPING SUN**

"A clan... of gypsies?"

Sherlock hummed.

"Brilliant way to travel when one's trying to stay under the radar," he drawled.

"I see," Mycroft murmured, glancing furtively from his younger brother to the even younger member of their party, who was dozing quite peacefully between them in a nest of Mycroft's plushest pillows and blankets.

"And you _engaged_in certain... activities during this arrangement?"

"Oh throughout it," Sherlock drawled, a tad smugly if Mycroft weren't quite mistaken, "I dare say _Dear Jim's _little moniker no longer applies to me."

"Clearly," muttered Mycroft, "I suppose congratulations are in order."

"Are they really?" Sherlock replied, "I don't see why. Personally I found the act itself as anticlimactic as I always expected it would be. What do you know... right again."

"Anticlimactic? Clearly that's not entirely true," Mycroft replied, glancing pointedly down at the sleeping bub with raised brow.

"I meant it in an emotional capacity rather a physiological one," Sherlock drawled, although an amused smirk was fighting its way into existence at the corners of the detective mouth, "My-my brother, have you always been so vulgar? Or is this a recent development?"

"You bring out the worst in me," Mycroft replied with a shrug, "Pray continue."

"I came across them about year, a year and a half maybe, into my travels, in the French countryside. I was trying to put as much distance between Paris and myself as possible. They were heading to Spain. I had a terrorist cell to break-up in Madrid, so I mentioned I was heading there as well. They welcomed me with open arms."

Mycroft smiled.

"I travelled throughout the cotenant with them for a little over a year, before we finally parted ways when they decided to head back west and I caught wind of an up and coming Russian mobster who claimed to have ties to the late Jim Moriarty's man... Sebastian Moran."

"I see. And this was – a year ago?"

"There about."

"I assume the young lady was conceived around this time?" Mycroft murmured, idly stroking the infant's plump cheek as she continued to sleep.

Sherlock nodded.

"I believe it was yes," he replied, elaborating, "Nadya – the child's mother, didn't inform me of the pregnancy. I knew nothing of her existence until 4 this afternoon."

"At which time the poor thing was dumped on your doorstep?"

"Yes," Sherlock sighed, "Nadya's brother explained that they did not have the resources to care for a child so young, and without a mother – she had a better chance of good, healthy life here with me, in the middle of London where I could provide her with medical care and schooling when the time came for it. They also ran the risk of her being seized by the government if ever they ran into trouble skipping boarders. He said he'd rather have to inform me of my child's death than her being taken to a Russian orphanage."

Mycroft nodded.

"I can't fault their logic," he announced, smiling fondly down at the child as she gurgled contently in her sleep, latching on to his index finger with a surprisingly firm grip.

"Nor can I," Sherlock replied, "But the whole arrangement is still far from ideal."

"I can help you there I'm sure," Mycroft murmured, idly run his thumb over the tiny little fingers squeezing his much larger one.

"Yes I know. That's why I came."

For a moment, they lapsed into silence, Mycroft marvelling at the unexpected strength of the baby girl's grip and the softness of her curly, raven hair (her father's hair) by turns. All the while, Sherlock seemed lost in thought.

"She has your nose," Mycroft finally announced, glancing up briefly at his younger brother, before returning his focus to the child, "Your mouth too."

"I'll perform a DNA test either way – to ensure we have a genetic link for future medical purposes," he explained.

"Of course," Mycroft replied.

"But as you said yourself – we share many physical similarities. I don't believe there is all that much doubt as to her paternal origin."

"I agree," Mycroft sighed, finally tearing his gaze away from the baby, "However if the tests were to come back negative."

"If they come back negative, it changes nothing," Sherlock replied firmly, "She's our responsibility now."

Mycroft rarely indulged in outward shows of emotion, especially where his brother was concerned, however on this particular occasion, he couldn't help but beam proudly at the man his younger brother, after years of trials and tribulations, had finally turned into.

"That's good to hear brother," he announced, "I promise to help you in every way I can."

Sherlock nodded briefly.

Mycroft frowned.

"Is there something else?" he asked.

Sherlock sighed.

"I won't make a good father Mycroft," he sighed.

"Nonsense," Mycroft scoffed, "You'll be fine."

"No I won't," Sherlock announced, "And this isn't nerves over suddenly becoming single-parent, it's fact. I'm not father material. I've changed a bit, but not that much. I'll forget about her during a case. I'll feed her the wrong food, when I remember to feed her – you know how I lose track of time whilst I'm working, I forget to feed myself."

Mycroft grudgingly hummed his acknowledgment.

"The flat's no place for a baby and that's really not going to change anytime soon no matter how hard everybody tries. My work's not child-friendly. I have clients come knocking at all hours of the night in varying states of distress with all manner of cases. I can't continue my work _and_be a good father, or even a passable father at the same time – and without the work I don't think I'd be all that great a father either."

Mycroft sighed.

"What are John's feelings on the matter?" he asked.

"I've not discussed it with him."

"Then perhaps you should."

"He's my flatmate Mycroft," Sherlock replied, "Not my partner, not in that sense at least. A friend, yes. My best friend even, if I'm feeling sentimental. But at the end of the day – he has no responsibility to the child and as such, no say as to what arrangements I make for her."

"And what arrangements would you like to make for her?" Mycroft asked.

Sherlock hesitated for a moment.

Mycroft frowned.

"Sherlock?"

"I think it would be best for everybody if you raise her Mycroft."

Mycroft scoffed.

"Me?"

"Yes. You," Sherlock replied, "Of course you. Who else? ...if you raise those eyebrows any higher, they're not going to come back down you know."

Mycroft spluttered.

"What in–? why wo-? Wha-?"

"Mycroft – you're babbling."

Mycroft shut his mouth with an audible click. Sherlock watched on with amusement as his ordinarily 'cool as ice' big brother attempted to force himself to calm down enough to speak.

After perhaps a minute of intense concentration, he finally managed it

"Why me?" he grit out.

"You don't want her?" Sherlock asked, ignoring the question put to him (for the time being at least).

It had the desired effect on Mycroft, whose eyes instantly widened and whose hand had wrapped around the diminutive one still clutching his finger a second later.

"I didn't say that," he replied, "I just want to hear your reasoning."

Sherlock shrugged.

"Well there's the fact that you clearly adore her," he drawled, glancing down at where Mycroft still clutched the baby's hand.

Mycroft cleared his throat.

"I don't-"

"You do."

"Caring is not-"

"No it's not. It's not voluntary either," Sherlock replied, "You know that as well as I do."

Mycroft sighed.

"Other than that – logically you're a sound choice. You are financially secure. You live in a nice clean flat in a nice clean part of town and exercise a nice clean lifestyle – comfort eating aside."

"Sherlock-"

"You have a far better chance than I or any foster family she would be placed in would have at getting her into a good school. And there was that protective streak again, your grip on her hand became firmer when I mentioned foster care – look, you did it again. It's clear you want to keep her-"

"You make it sound like you're bartering off a pet."

"And again. You're already incredibly protective of her – which, isn't all that shocking."

That elicited a rather put out sniff from Mycroft – but no denial either.

Sherlock decided to go in for the kill.

"And, of course, there's the fact that I've sampled your child-rearing techniques personally."

Mycroft blinked.

Sherlock's customary smirk softened a little around the edges.

"If you ever repeat a word of what I'm about to say to you – I will deny it until my dying day. But – you were more of a mother and father to me than our parents ever were Mycroft. Every good memory I have of our childhood has you at the root of it and if there is anybody I trust to raise and nurture my own flesh and blood when I'm not capable of doing it myself – it's you."

Sherlock didn't think he'd ever seen Mycroft's eyes that wide before (and the eyebrows were never coming back down, of that Sherlock was certain).  
>He let the silence stretch. He wasn't going to rush his brother on this; there was more at stake than a little wasted time.<p>

Mycroft glanced back down at the baby, who was slowly beginning to stir from her rest, her hand still snugly nestled within Mycroft's.

"Do you mean that?" he finally asked.

Sherlock frowned.

"Of course I do," he replied, "When have I ever said something I don't mean?"

Mycroft chuckled.

"When it benefits you to do so," he retorted, an amused smile tugging spreading across his face.

Sherlock shrugged.

Mycroft grinned.

"I appreciate it, just so you know."

"Don't expect me to say it again," Sherlock snippily replied.

"Perish the thought," Mycroft chuckled, before being interrupted by a decidedly put-out wail from amidst the nest of blankets.

"Somebody's finally decided to join the conversation it seems," Mycroft chortled as he gently scooped the fussing babe into his arms, somehow managing to adjust his hold in a pleasing manner instinctively – where Sherlock had only just managed a method that made her screamer less shrilly.

After a moment of being cradled in secure arms, the fussing finally settled and Mycroft's index finger was seized and held in a death-grip once more.

Mycroft laughed.

"What a fuss," he murmured, smiling down at the bundle of blankets and blotchy skin and bright, brown eyes, "I certainly see the resemblance between you and your Daddy now."

Sherlock's resentment of that insinuation went un-noted by both his kin.

This mingling between uncle and niece carried on for quite some time, Mycroft murmuring nonsense at the child the whole time, ignoring Sherlock demands to speak sense and allowing his fingers to be gnawed on by gummy jaws.

"I'm not an expert by any stretch," Sherlock drawled, lounging back against the leather sofa as he watched his daughter struggle to chew through flesh using willpower alone, "But I think she might like you."

Mycroft hummed contently.

"That's good. I'm rather taken with her as well."

Sherlock grinned.

"So you'll take her in?" he asked.

"Was there any question?" Mycroft drawled, sparing Sherlock a sardonic glance before returning his attention to the baby once more.

"You're being really quite sickening right now," Sherlock groaned, covering his eyes.

Mycroft scoffed.

"You've only yourself to blame."

Sherlock sniffed, but let it slide with relative grace.

"She's not got a name you know?" he murmured, scooting just a bit closer to peer at the strange little creature snuggled contently in his brother's arms, "Nadya never got around to giving her one – and the clan didn't feel it was their place. We'll have to come up with something for her ourselves. What do you think?"

Mycroft considered the question for a long moment, frowning contemplating down at the cooing baby in his arms.

"She looks like a little Tsura to me. It means _light of Dawn_, which seems fitting. A tiny little light of new beginnings. And then perhaps, her mother for a second name. Tsura Nadya Holmes. How does that sounds?"

Sherlock smirked.

"Horribly sentimental," he replied, "But I suppose it will have to do."

**Fin.**


End file.
